Crowswood: Blood and Moonfall

Chapter 1: The Dying Town Freya's POV The smell hit me first sulfur and rust, like someone had set fire to a cemetery full of old car parts. I rolled down the rental car window as I crossed the town line, immediately regretting it when the acrid air burned my throat. Welcome to Crowswood, where the American Dream had apparently come to die a slow, poisonous death. My sister Lyra would have called it atmospheric. She always found beauty in broken things, sketching crumbling buildings and rusted machinery with the same reverence other artists reserved for flowers. The memory twisted in my chest like a blade. Two years since she'd vanished without a trace, and I was finally here, following the thinnest of leads to this godforsaken place. The main street stretched before me like a wound, lined with boarded storefronts and businesses that had clearly given up hope. A few people moved along the sidewalks with their heads down, shoulders hunched against more than just the evening chill. They walked like prey animals, constantly aware of predators lurking just out of sight. I parked outside the Crowswood Inn, a Victorian monstrosity that had probably been beautiful once. Now it sagged under the weight of decades, its paint peeling like diseased skin. The neon sign flickered weakly, missing half its letters. “Cr wsw od I n”. Even the town's name couldn't stay whole in this place. The lobby smelled of mothballs and desperation. Behind the desk sat a woman who might have been anywhere from forty to seventy, her face weathered beyond easy classification. She looked up when I entered, her eyes sharp despite her worn appearance. "You're not from around here," she said. Not a question. "Freya Chen, Chicago Tribune." I'd practiced the lie so many times it felt natural. "I'm working on a piece about industrial pollution in small towns. Mind if I ask how long you've lived here?" Her laugh was bitter as black coffee. "Long enough to watch everything die. You staying long?" "Few days, maybe a week. Depends what I find." "Hope you find it quick and leave quicker. This town's got a way of keeping people who linger too long." She slid a key across the counter. "Room twelve. And miss? Lock your door at night. We get... wildlife." The way she said wildlife made my skin crawl, but I just nodded and took the key. As I headed for the stairs, she called after me. "What did you say your name was again?" "Freya Chen." Something flickered across her face recognition, maybe, or fear. "Chen. That's an interesting name. We had another girl with that name come through here a while back. Pretty little thing, always carrying a sketchbook." My heart slammed against my ribs. "When was this?" "Oh, must be two years now. Maybe a bit more. She was asking questions too, just like you." The woman's eyes went distant. "Shame what happened to her." "What happened?" My voice came out sharper than I'd intended. "Same thing that happens to everyone who stays too long in Crowswood, honey. They become part of the scenery." She turned back to her paperwork, clearly done with the conversation. Room twelve was exactly what I'd expected: faded wallpaper, a bed that had seen better decades, and a view of the alley behind the building. I dumped my bag and immediately started setting up my real equipment. The journalism cover was solid, but my true tools were different: surveillance cameras, audio recorders, a laptop loaded with facial recognition software, and every piece of information I'd managed to gather about my sister's last known whereabouts. Lyra had been here. The desk clerk's description fit perfectly, down to the ever-present sketchbook. My sister had sat in this same room, maybe even this same bed, pursuing whatever had drawn her to this dying place. And then she'd vanished completely, like she'd never existed at all. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the photos I'd memorized Lyra laughing at her easel, paint streaked across her cheek; Lyra serious and focused, working on one of her dark cityscapes; Lyra the night before she disappeared, something haunted in her eyes that I'd been too busy with my own life to notice. The last conversation we'd had replayed in my mind like a broken record. She'd called me, excited about some opportunity, some chance to "finally make a difference." I'd been rushing to catch a flight, distracted by deadlines, barely listening. When she mentioned Crowswood, I'd made some joke about her artistic phases. She'd gone quiet then, hurt. "You never believe in me," she'd said. "That's not true, Lyr. I just" "Forget it, Freya. I have to go." Those were the last words my sister ever spoke to me. Now I was here, in the place that had swallowed her whole, and I wasn't leaving without answers. Whatever had happened to Lyra, whoever was responsible they were about to discover that Chen sisters didn't give up easily. Some people might call it stubbornness. I called it family loyalty. The sun was setting outside my window, painting the alley in shades of rust and shadow. Somewhere in this poisoned town were the answers I'd been seeking for two years. Tomorrow, I'd start asking the right questions. Tonight, I'd mourn the sister I'd failed to save the first time.